LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


EACH  IN        *        * 
HIS  OWN  TONGUE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY 
WILLIAM  HERBERT  CARRUTH 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  &  LONDON 
Ifcnfcfcerbocfcer 

1909 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


COPYRIGHT,  1908 

BY 
WILLIAM  HERBERT  CARRUTH 

Published,  December,  1908 
Reprinted,  January,  1909  ;  October   1909 


With  acknowledgments  for  the  privilege  of  re- 
printing to:  The  New  England  Magazine ',  Scribner  s 
Magazine,  The  Cosmopolitan,  The  Independent,  The 
Open  Court,  The  Overland  Magazine,  The  Christian 
Register,  The  American  Magazine. 


ttbe  l?nfcfeerbocfeer  press,  flew 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

MY  WILL i 

EACH  IN  His  OWN  TONGUE           .          .  2 

A  RHYME  OF  THOMAS  THE  DOUBTER      .  4 

GOD  BLESS  You           ....  6 

IT  Is  GLORY  ENOUGH            .          .          .  8 

DREAMERS  OF  DREAMS  10 

WHEN  THE  CANNON  BOOMS           .          .  12 
How   CAN    ONE    HEART    HOLD    THEM 

BOTH? 15 

THE  TIME  TO  STRIKE  16 
PEACE,  BE  STILL         ....  19 
IF  HE  SHOULD  COME  .          .          .          .21 
THE    PLAINT   OF   THE    FRUITLESS   FIG- 
TREE            22 

THE    BROTHER    OF    THE    PRODIGAL 

SON    ......  26 

THE  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY         .  32 

HEAVEN  AND  HELL      ....  34 

PEACE    ON    EARTH,    GOOD    WILL    TO 

WOMEN        .  .          .          -37 

AN  HONEST  CHRISTENING    ...  39 

THE  I3TH  VENDEMIAIRE       ...  41 

THE  PHANTOM  GUEST           ...  45 

THE  SONG  BEHIND  THE  SHUTTER            .  47 

VON  FERNE         .....  48 

UNWEIT  DEM  ZIEL        ....  49 


iv  Contents 

PACK 

HEIM          ......       50 

IMMERGRUEN      .          .          .          .          .51 

A  GREETING       .          .  .          .52 

AN  ANSWER        .         .          .  53 

IN  ABSENCE — To  HER  PICTURE    .          .       54 
WASTED  SUNSHINE      ....        56 

SONG  AT  SUNSET          .          .          .          -57 

FAITH 58 

WHEN  MY  LADY-LOVE  LIVED  HERE  59 
SHE  WAS  ALONG  ....  60 
AFTER  A  WHILE  .  .  .  .61 

AND  so  WE  Two  MUST  PART  AT  LAST  .  63 
THE  TOUCH  OF  TIME  ...  65 

ENTSCHLAFEN  .....  68 
NATURE'S  EPITAPH  ....  70 
CHILDHOOD  IN  THE  SLUMS  .  .  .71 
THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY  ...  72 
O  GRAVE,  WHERE  Is  THY  VICTORY?  .  74 
THE  SETTING  ...  76 

ON  ONE  WHO  DIED  IN  CHILDBIRTH  .  77 
HAGEN  UNO  VOLKER  ....  79 

WEEDS 81 

ADAM'S  FIRST  SLEEP  ....  82 
MOTHER,  WHAT  CHEER?  ...  83 
SOMETHING  REMAINS  ....  84 
To  SOME  FRIENDS  MADE  LONG  AGO 

AT  SEA         .         .  -85 

GOD  KNEW  WHAT  STORMY  SEAS  .          .        86 

LlEDER  OHNE  WORTE  ...  87 

A  POET  TO  A  VIOLINIST  ...  89 
CHARLES  ROBINSON  OF  KANSAS  .  .  90 


Contents  v 

PAGE 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  .  .  -91 
To  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER  ...  92 
JOHN  BROWN  .....  94 
IT  DOES  NOT  PAY  ....  95 
THE  MASTER  OF  BRYNWOOD  .  .  96 
BENEATH  THE  ICE  ....  98 
THE  TIDE  Is  OUT  ....  99 
UNDER  THE  LEAVES  ....  100 
A  STORMY  NIGHT  .  .  .  101 

WOULD  GOD  I  WERE  Now  BY  THE 

SEA    ......      102 

KING  ARTHUR'S  HUNT          .         .          .104 
FAREWELL  TO  A  MODEST  SCHOLAR          .      106 
MY  MUSE  ......      108 

THE  PLACE  TO  BE  BORN       .          .          .no 
FLOWER  AND  SONG      .          .          .          .in 

A  MIRACLE          .          .          .          .          .113 

EVERY  SPRING  is  GREENER  .          -115 

THE  GOSPEL  OP  HATE  .          .  117 

A  NEW  YEAR'S  THOUGHT     .          .          .      120 
OLD  YEAR  AND  NEW  .          .          .121 

TO-MORROW        .          .          .          .          .122 

LIFE  .          .          .          .          .          .123 

HYMN  ......  124 

LIFE  AT  K.  S.  U 126 

TRINK  AUF  MEIN  WOHL  MIT  AUGEN 

NUR  .....  128 

OFT  IN  DER  STILLEN  NACHT  .  .  I2 


MY  WILL 

COR  thee  my  will,  which  I  }ve  been  told 
^        Imperious  was  and  hard  to  hold— 
For  thee  't  is  changed;  I  think  't  is  right 
That  I  should  tell  thee  how  the  might 
Of  love  like  thine  my  soul  doth  mould. 
So  heed  once  more  thy  teacher  bold, 
Whose  heart  hath  not  with  years  grown 

cold; 
Life's  lesson  I  will  read  aright 

For  thee,  my  Will: 
Age  sweeter  grows  if  love  unfold 
Our  being  while  we  're  growing  old; 
Who  'd  wish  to  be  more  erudite 
Than  read  with  lover's  deeper  sight 
The  lore  that 's  writ  in  living  gold 
For  thee,  my  Will. 

FRANCES  SCHLBGEL  CARRUTH. 


EACH  IN  HIS  OWN  TONGUE 

AFIRE-MIST  and  a  planet, 
A  crystal  and  a  cell, 
A  jelly-fish  and  a  saurian, 

And  caves  where  the  cave-men  dwell ; 
Then  a  sense  of  law  and  beauty 

And  a  face  turned  from  the  clod, — 
Some  call  it  Evolution, 
And  others  call  it  God. 

A  haze  on  the  far  horizon, 

The  infinite,  tender  sky, 
The  ripe,  rich  tint  of  the  cornfields, 

And  the  wild  geese  sailing  high ; 
And  all  over  upland  and  lowland 

The  charm  of  the  golden-rod, — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Autumn, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

Like  tides  on  a  crescent  sea-beach, 
When  the  moon  is  new  and  thin, 

Into  our  hearts  high  yearnings 
Come  welling  and  surging  in : 


Each  in  His  Own  Tongue  3 

Come  from  the  mystic  ocean 
Whose  rim  no  foot  has  trod, — 

Some  of  us  call  it  Longing, 
And  others  call  it  God. 

A  picket  frozen  on  duty, 

A  mother  starved  for  her  brood, 
Socrates  drinking  the  hemlock, 

And  Jesus  on  the  rood; 
And  millions  who,  humble  and  nameless, 

The  straight,  hard  pathway  plod, — 
Some  call  it  Consecration, 

And  others  call  it  God. 


A  RHYME  OF  THOMAS  THE 
DOUBTER 

WHEN  the  Master  had  finished  the 
story  of  the  sower  and    the 
seed, 

And  had  shown  his  disciples  the  lesson 
of  rock  and  wayside  and  weed, 

Then  up  spoke  Thomas  the  Doubter, 
and  his  brow  was  furrowed  with 
thought, — 

He  had  seen  a  darker  problem  in  the 
lesson  that  was  taught. 

1  'Master,"  said  Thomas  the  Doubter, 
"when  the  seed  sown  is  the  word, 

I  can  see  the  meaning  right  plainly  of 
the  lesson  we  have  heard ; 

"But,  Master,  say  that  the  sower  were 
God  and  the  seed  were  men, 

And  some  of  them  fell  by  the  wayside, 
what  were  the  lesson  then? 
4 


A  Rhyme  of  Thomas  the  Doubter    5 

"For  I  see  men  daily,  my  brothers,  like 
the  seed  of  which  you  spoke, 

And  among  the  thorns  fall  many,  and 
the  thorns  spring  up  and  choke. 

"And  some  of  them,  good  Master,  fall 

where  the  soil  is  scant, 
And  they  perish  there  for  the  absence  of 

the  life  for  which  they  pant. 

"It  is  easy,"  said  Thomas  the  Doubter, 
"for  those  on  good  soil  cast, 

For  they  have  their  joy  of  living  and 
the  harvest  at  the  last; 

"But  those  who  fall  by  the  wayside,  in 
thorns  and  on  stony  ground, 

Are  they  like  the  seed  grain  scattered  by 
a  careless  hand  around?" 

But  the  Master  was  silent  and  mourn- 
ful, and  his  brow  was  furrowed  with 
thought, 

And  there  lay  on  his  soul  a  burden  which 
Thomas  the  Doubter  had  wrought. 


GOD  BLESS  YOU 

WHEN  you  've  struggled  hard  and 
long 
And  the  battle  has  gone  wrong 

And  a  world  of  cares  oppress  you, 
Like  cool  water  from  a  spring, 
Like  the  balm  the  south  winds  bring, 
Are   the   simple   words,    "God   bless 
you." 

When  you  're  going  far  away, 
Far  from  all  you  love  to  stray, 

And  the  parting-pangs  distress  you, 
Like  a  sunbeam  in  the  heart, 
Though  the  choking  tears  may  start,. 

Are  the  words,  "Good-by,  God  bless 
you." 

When  the  bitter  days  are  past, 
When  your  joy  is  full  at  last, 

And  the  winds  of  heaven  caress  you, 
6 


God  Bless  You  7 

Then  the  heart  will  overflow 
While  the  happy  head  bends  low 

And  a  true  friend  says,  "God  bless 
you." 

Be  his  faith  in  James  or  Paul, 
One  God,  many,  or  none  at  all, 

Whose  kind  lips  the  words  address 

you, 

Nothing  matters ;  when  it  needs, 
Doubts,  philosophies  and  creeds 

Are  forgotten  in  "God  bless  you." 


IT  IS  GLORY  ENOUGH 

IT  is  glory  enough  to  have  shouted  the 
name 
Of  the  living  God  in  the  teeth  of  an 

army  of  foes ; 

To  have  thrown  all  prudence  and  fore- 
thought away 
And  for  once  to  have  followed  the  call 

of  the  soul 
Out  into  the  danger  of  darkness,  of  ruin 

and  death. 

To  have  counselled  with  right,  not  suc- 
cess, for  once, 

Is  glory  enough  for  one  day. 

It  is  glory  enough  for  one  day 

To  have  marched  out  alone  before  the 

seats  of  the  scornful, 
Their  fingers  all  pointing  your  way ; 
To  have  felt  and  wholly  forgotten  the 

branding-iron  of  their  eyes; 
To'  have  stood  up  proud  and  reliant  on 

only  your  soul 

And  go  calmly  on  with  your  duty — 
It  is  glory  enough. 
8 


//  Is  Glory  Enough  9 

It  is  glory  enough  to  have  taken  the 
perilous  risk; 

Instead  of  investing  in  stocks  and  paid- 
up  insurance  for  one, 

To  have  fitted  a  cruiser  for  right  to 
adventure  a  sea  full  of  shoals ; 

To  sail  without  chart  and  with  only  the 
stars  for  a  guide ; 

To   have   dared   to   lose   with   all   the 
chances  for  losing 
Is  glory  enough. 

It  is  glory  enough  for  one  day 

To  have  dreamed  the  bright  dream  of 

the  reign  of  right ; 
To  have  fastened  your  faith  like  a  flag  to 

that  immaterial  staff 
And    have    marched    away,    forgetting 

your  base  of  supplies. 
And  while  the  worldly  wise  see  nothing 

but  shame  and  ignoble  retreat, 
And  though  far  ahead  the  heart  may 

faint  and  the  flesh  prove  weak — 
To  have  dreamed  that  bold  dream  is 

glory  enough, 

Is  glory  enough  for  one  day. 


DREAMERS  OP  DREAMS 

WE  are  all  of  us  dreamers  of  dreams ; 
On    visions    our    childhood    is 

fed; 
And  the  heart  of  the  child  is  unhaunted, 

it  seems, 
By  the  ghosts  of  dreams  that  are  dead. 

From  childhood  to  youth  's  but  a  span 
And  the  years  of  our  youth  are  soon 

sped; 
Yet  the  youth  is  no  longer  a  youth,  but 

a  man, 
When  the  first  of  his  dreams  is  dead. 

There  's  no  sadder  sight  this  side  the 

grave 
Than  the  shroud  o'er  a  fond  dream 

spread, 
And  the  heart  should  be  stern  and  the 

eyes  be  brave 
To  gaze  on  a  dream  that  is  dead. 

10 


Dreamers  of  Dreams  n 

'T  is  as  a  cup  of  wormwood  and  gall 
When  the  doom  of  a  great  dream  is 
said, 

And  the  best  of  a  man  is  under  the  pall 
When  the  best  of  his  dreams  is  dead. 

He  may  live  on  by  compact  and  plan 
When  the  fine  bloom  of  living  is  shed, 

But  God  pity  the  little  that 's  left  of  a 

man 
When  the  last  of  his  dreams  is  dead. 

Let  him  show  a  brave  face  if  he  can, 
Let  him  woo  fame  or  fortune  instead, 

Yet  there  's  not  much  to  do  but  bury  a 

man 
When  the  last  of  his  dreams  is  dead. 


WHEN  THE  CANNON  BOOMS 

WHEN  the  cannon  booms, 
When  the  war-drums  rattle  fiercely 
And  the  feet  of  men  in  khaki  hammer 
time  out  on  the  pave, 

It  is  easy  to  be  brave; 
It  is  easy  to  believe  that  God  is  angry 
with  the  other 

Man,  our  brother, 

And  has  left  the  sword  of  Gideon  in  our 
wayward  human  hand, 

When  the  cannon  booms. 

When  the  cannon  booms, 
When  the  battle-flags  are  fluttering  and 
men  are  going  mad 

With  the  blind  desire  for  glory, 
Filled  with  visions  grand  and  gory 

12 


When  the  Cannon  Booms         13 

It  is  easy  to  assent 
To  the  Corsican  blasphemer's  scoffing 

creed ; 

It  is  easy  to  believe  God  is  with  the  big 
battalions, 

Whether  cherubim  or  hellions, 
When  the  cannon  booms. 

When  the  cannon  booms, 
When  the  primal  love  of  fighting  stirs 
the  tiger  in  our  blood, 
And  the  fascinating  smell 
Of  the  sulphur-fumes  of  hell 
Rouses  memories  of  the  pit  from  which 
our  human  nature  rose, 

It  is  easy  to  forget 
God  was  not  found  in  the  earthquake, 

in  the  strong  wind  or  the  fire; 
It  is  easy  to   forget  how  at  last   the 
prophet  heard  Him 

As  a  still,  small  voice, 
When  the  cannon  booms. 

When  the  cannon  booms, 
When  the  war-lords  strut  and  swagger 


14          When  the  Cannon  Booms 

And  the  battle-ships  are  plowing  for  the 
bitter  crop  of  death, 

While  the  shouting  rends  the  ear, 

Echoing  from  the  empyrean, 
It  it  difficult  to  hear 

Through  the  din  the  Galilean 
With  his  calm  voice  preaching  peace  on 
earth  to  men; 

'T  will  be  easier  to  claim, 
If  we  will,  the  Christian  name, 
To  become  as  little  children  and  be  men 

of  gentle  will, 

When  the  cannon  booms — the  cannon 
booms — no  more. 


HOW  CAN  ONE  HEART  HOLD 
THEM  BOTH  ? 

ONOWY  bosoms,  silks,  and  musk, 
O     Music,  laughter,  raillery,  wit; — 
Thin  forms  slinking  through  the  dusk 

Where  despair  and  famine  flit : 
Poet,  preacher,  tell  me  sooth, 
How  can  one  heart  hold  them  both? 

Books,  seclusion,  lettered  labor, 
Burning  thirst  for  name  and  fame ; 

Helpful  love  for  friend  and  neighbor, 
Sympathy  for  blind  and  lame : 

Poet,  preacher,  tell  me  sooth, 

How  can  one  heart  hold  them  both  ? 

Art,  aesthetic  teas,  and  science, 
Pride,  precedence,  pedigrees; — 

Gaunt  toil  full  of  fierce  defiance, 
Hovels  full  of  fell  disease : 

Poet,  statesman,  tell  me  sooth, 

How  can  one  State  hold  them  both? 


THE  TIME  TO  STRIKE 

MY  God,  I  am  weary  of  waiting  for 
the  year  of  jubilee ; 

I  know  that  the  cycle  of  man  is  a  mo- 
ment only  to  thee; 
They  have  held  me  back  with  preaching 

what  the  patience  of  God  is  like, 
But  the  world  is  weary  of  waiting;  will 
it  never  be  time  to  strike  ? 

When  my  hot  heart  rose  in  rebellion  at 

the  wrongs  my  fellows  bore, 
It  was  "Wait  until  prudent  saving  has 

gathered  you  up  a  store" ; 
And  "Wait  till  a  higher  station  brings 

value  in  men's  eyes" ; 
And  "Wait  till  the  gray-streaked  hair 

shall  argue  your  counsel  wise." 

The  hearts  that  kindled  with  mine  are 
caught  in  the  selfsame  net ; 

One  waits  to  master  the  law,  though  his 
heartstrings  vibrate  yet; 
16 


The  Time  to  Strike  1 7 

And  one  is  heaping  up  learning,  and 
many  are  heaping  up  gold, 

And  some  are  fierce  in  the  forum,  while 
slowly  we  all  wax  old. 

The  rights  of  man  are  a  byword;  the 

bones  are  not  yet  dust 
Of  those  who  broke  the  shackles  and  the 

shackles  are  not  yet  rust 
Till  the  masters  are  forging  new  ones, 

and  coward  lips  are  sealed 
While  the  code  that  cost  a  million  lives 

is  step  by  step  repealed. 

The  wily  world-enchantress  is  working 

her  cursed  charm, 
The  spell  of  the  hypnotizer  is  laming  us 

head  and  arm ; 
The  wrong  dissolves  in  a  cloudbank  of 

"whether"  and  "if"  and  "still," 
And  the  subtleties  of  logic  inhibit  the 

sickly  will. 

The   bitter  lesson  of   patience   I   have 

practised,  lo!  these  years; 
Can  it  be,  what  has  passed  for  prudence 

was  prompted  by  my  fears? 


1 8  The  Time  to  Strike 

Can  I  doubt  henceforth  in  my  choosing, 
if  such  a  choice  I  must  have, 

Between  being  wise  and  craven  or  being 
foolish  and  brave? 

Whenever  the  weak  and  weary  are  ridden 

down  by  the  strong, 
Whenever  the  voice  of  honor  is  drowned 

by  the  howling  throng, 
Whenever  the  right  pleads  clearly  while 

the  lords  of  life  are  dumb, 
The  times  of  forbearance  are  over  and 

the  time  to  strike  is  come. 


PEACE,  BE  STILL 

PEACE,  storm  and  conflict,  peace! 
What  is  the  use?  be  still! 
Catch  breath,  and  feel  the  thrill 
Of  the  remorseless  engine  pumping 
out  your  life  days  one  by  one. 
What  is  the  fight  when  won? 
Cease,  hot  rebellion,  cease! 

That  tempest,  where  is  it  now? 

The  wren  on  the  cherry-bough 

Bubbles  with  pent-up  joy ; 

The  cricket  there  in  the  grass  is  as 
sober  now  as  before ;  the  team- 
ster  whistles    and    the    maid 
trudges  void  of  thought; 
Pass  your  hand  over  your  brow; 
Where  is  that  tempest  now? 
19 


20  Peace,  Be  Still 

Nowhere,  then,  but  within? 
There,  too,  let  it  subside. 

See  the  sweet  sunshine  sleeping  on 

that  wall! 

The  sky  is  blue  and  wide ; 
Out  yonder,  kin  by  kin, 

Thousands,  their  hot  pulse  stilled 
forever   'neath  the  sod,  sleep, 
storms  and  all, — 
They,  too,  would  have  their  will; 
What  have  they  now?     Be  still. 


IF  HE  SHOULD  COME 

IF  He  should  come  in  such  a  guise 
As   once   He  wore   'neath    Judah's 

skies, 

And  walk  about  as  He  did  then 
Among  the  busy  throngs  of  men, 
And  call  them  to  the  Last  Assize,— 
Would  not  He  meet  incredulous  eyes 
And  pity  or  amused  surprise 
From  every  Christian  citizen, 
If  He  should  come? 

The  scribes  and    Pharisees  would  not 

rise, 

Stung  by  His  lashings  of  their  lies, 
To  nail  Him  to  the  cross  again, 
But  merely  tap  their  foreheads  when 
He  spoke,  with  sympathetic  sighs, 
If  He  should  come. 


21 


THE  PLAINT  OF  THE  FRUITLESS 
FIG-TREE 

1HAD  been  humbly  following  his  path 
From  the  low  manger  where  he  saw 

the  light, 

Through  all  its  wanderings  until  the  day 
When  the  glad   populace   strewed   the 

way  with  palms 

Before  the  King  upon  the  ass's  foal. 
I  think  that  exultation  and  amaze 
Must  have  contended  in  him,  and   the 

dream 
Of   Judah  regnant  may  have   dazzled 

him. 

He  turned  away  and  went  to  Bethany 
To  let  the  dizzy  surge  of  blood  recede 
And  leave  him  calm  to  meet  the  coming 

doom. 

Thither  I  followed,  and  at  sultry  noon 
I  sank  beside  the  road  beneath  a  tree 
That  spread  a  scanty  foliage  of  brown 
And  cast  the  shadow  of  a  shadow  o'er 
The  turfy  hummock  where  I  laid  my 

head. 

22 


The  Plaint  of  the  Fruitless  Fig-  Tree    23 

I  thought  I  would  not  sleep,  and  fixed 

my  eye 

On  one  unhappy  tuft  of  yellow  leaves, 
A-marvelling     how    the     all-enlivening 

spring 

Had  left  this  one  tree  destitute  of  green. 
And  as  I  gazed  the  quivering  noon  was 

moved; 

A  little  zephyr  set  the  leaves  astir, 
And  from  their  midst  the  eager  silence 

spoke : 
"  I  am  the  fruitless  fig-tree; 

Hearken  what  made  my  name 
In  all  the  wide  world-garden 
A  byword  and  a  shame. 

"  Bright  were  the  spring  days  on  me, 

My  spreading  leaves  among 
The  pale  green  buds  were  swelling, 

And  low  my  branches  hung. 

"  Weary  and  sorely  troubled 

Came  one  along  the  way, 
And  paused  with  his  friends  beside  me, 

Late  on  a  sunny  day. 


24    The  Plaint  of  the  Fruitless  Fig-  Tree 

"  Vainly  among  my  branches 
For  cooling  fruit  they  sought — 

Surely  they  knew  that  in  April 
The  search  must  be  for  nought? 

"  Stern  grew  the  brow  of  the  leader ; 

He  opened  his  mouth  and  spake 
A  heavy  curse  against  me, — 

A  curse  for  the  season's  sake. 


"  How  could  I  comprehend  it? 

I  thought  he  must  know  why ; 
And  I  saw  my  foliage  wither 

With  only  a  gentle  sigh. 

"  But  the  little  birds  that  gathered 
Beneath  my  leaves  at*  night, 

And  the  bees,  were  grieved  about  it 
And  could  not  find  it  right. 

"  I  have  questioned  many  a  doctor 
And  many  a  cowled  saint, 

But  none  of  them  all  can  tell  me 
The  cause  of  my  punishment. 


The  Plaint  of  the  Fruitless  Fig-  Tree    25 

"  And  so  through  summer  and  winter 

Barren  and  brown  I  stand; 
I  grieve  and  puzzle  about  it 

And  cannot  understand. 

"  I  am  waiting  now  for  the  Judgment, 
For  the  dawn  of  the  righteous  day, 

When  the  curse  and  the  shame  and  the 

evil  fame 
Shall  be  lifted  and  blown  away." 

The  shifting  sunlight  fell   athwart  my 

eyes, — 
I  stirred,  and  opened  them,  and  looking 

up 
Beheld  the  dull  green  branches  full  of 

fruit. 

I  got  my  staff  in  hand,  and  all  the  way 
To  Bethany  I  marvelled  o'er  and  o'er, 
Whether  I  dreamed  at  first,  and  made 

the  plaint 
While  wide  awake,  or  whether  when  I 

woke 

I  woke  into  a  dream,  or  whether  when 
I  read  that  strange  tale  in  the  Book,  I 

dream. 


THE  BROTHER  OF  THE  PRODIGAL 
SON 

A      DIALOGUE     BETWEEN     THE     BROTHER 
AND   THE    FATHER    OF    THE    PRODIGAL 

THE  BROTHER 

Sire,  my  heart  is  sore  to-day; 
Sire,  I  have  somewhat  to  say. 
I  do  not  grudge  my  brother  aught 
Of  the  joys  this  day  has  brought; 
Less  thou  couldst  not  well  have  done, 
Seeing  that  he  is  thy  son ; 
Yet  it  rankles  in  my  heart, — 
I  that  chose  the  better  part 
Never  from  thy  lips  have  heard 
Blessing  or  approving  word. 

THE  FATHER 

Yea,  the  better  part  hadst  thou, 
Hence  no  need  of  comfort  now. 
Thou  dost  know  the  joy  serene 
Come  of  hand  and  conscience  clean. 
26 


The  Brother  of  the  Prodigal  Son     27 

Every  time  we  sat  at  food 
Was  a  feast  of  gratitude ; 
Duty's  blessings  clustering  hung 
Daily  the  dark  leaves  among. 

THE  BROTHER 

Sire,  the  heart  thou  know'st  not  well; 

Very  little  it  doth  tell 

In  the  glow  of  youth's  springtide 

Of  a  conscience  satisfied. 

Nay,  a  poor  joy  it  would  be 

To  contemplate  constantly 

How  in  spite  of  us  the  real 

Falls  below  the  high  ideal. 

Duty  's  not  the  only  tooth 

Gnawing  at  the  heart  of  youth. 

THE  FATHER 

Son,  thou  grievest  me  right  sore, — 
Scarce  thy  brother  grieved  me  more ; 
He  was  blind,  and  blinding  sin 
Hid  the  way  that  he  was  in ; 
He  has  chewed  the  bitter  root, 
Found  how  little  it  doth  boot ; 


28    The  Brother  of  the  Prodigal  Son 

Now  an  outcast,  contrite,  poor, 
Comes  he  to  his  father's  door, 
And  thou  grudgest  him  a  sup 
From  thine  ever-brimming  cup. 

THE  BROTHER 

When  my  brother  went  away 
And  my  duty  bade  me  stay, 
Think  not  't  was  an  easy  thing; 
I  too  heard  the  sirens  sing, 
And  that  song  rang  in  my  ears 
All  the  dull,  monotonous  years 
While  with  cheerless  heart  I  wooed 
That  cold,  unresponsive  prude 
Virtue,  and  the  sun  will  set 
With  the  sweet  song  ringing  yet. 

THE  FATHER 

Much  I  marvel  at  thy  word ; 
Such  wild  thoughts  I  never  heard 
From  thine  erewhile  temperate  tongue 
Here,  the  white-fleeced  flocks  among. 
Daily  with  the  calm-eyed  kine 
Following  down  the  furrow-line, 


The  Brother  of  the  Prodigal  Son    29 

Whence,  in  such  meek  company, 
Did  these  fierce  thoughts  come  to  thee  ? 
Sure  thy  brain  is  overwrought 
That  thou  countest  virtue  naught. 

THE  BROTHER 

Virtue  is  a  glittering  star, 
Very  cold  and  very  far; 
Sin  is  warm  and  fierce  and  near, 
Ever  whispering  in  our  ear. 
You  whose  arteries  quiet  flow, 
Little  do  you  dream  or  know, 
While  we  go  about  our  work, 
How  the  lures  of  hell  do  lurk 
In  the  unseen,  surging  flood 
Of  our  hot,  tempestuous  blood. 

THE  FATHER 

Sin  at  hand  and  virtue  far, — 
Soul  and  sense  in  thee  at  war, — 
Yet  the  struggle  left  no  trace 
On  thy  firm,  impassive  face? 
This  is  born  of  some  disease ; 
Never  such  mad  words  as  these 
Came  from  thine  own  natural  heart 
From  all  poison-taint  apart. 


30     The  Brother  of  the  Prodigal  Son 

Or  is  thine  unwarded  breast 
By  some  evil  fiend  possessed? 

THE  BROTHER 

In  the  heart's  recesses  sit 

All  the  demons  of  the  pit, 

Bound  with  chains  of  slightest  hair 

Which  an  easy  breath  may  tear. 

Some  in  beauty  perilous 

Unto  pleasure  beckon  us, 

Some  in  monstrous  shapes  of  doubt 

Scoff  our  better  yearnings  out ; — 

Such  companions  hath  the  soul 

While  the  placid  seasons  roll. 

THE  FATHER 

At  the  thought  of  this  thy  strife, 
As  from  out  another  life, 
From  the  chambers  of  my  past 
Phantom  memories  gather  fast 
Of  the  storms  of  other  days. 
Time  hath  greatly  changed  my  ways ; 
Duty's  habitude  doth  keep 
Youth's  dead  passions  buried  deep, 
Yet  these  conflicts  once  were  mine 
And  my  youth  was  like  to  thine. 


The  Brother  of  the  Prodigal  Son    3 1 

THE  BROTHER 

Duty,  sire,  is  like  the  moon, 
Love  is  like  the  sun  at  noon. 
Duty  has  no  heat  to  make 
Roses  from  the  thorn-bush  break. 
Love,  love,  love,  0  sire,  I  crave, — 
Love  can  make  the  faint  heart  brave. 
He  who  treads  the  flowerless  path 
Likewise  need  of  comfort  hath ; 
All  the  charms  of  virtue  prove 
Dust  beside  the  balm  of  love. 

THE  FATHER 

Son,  my  heart  is  strangely  moved; 

Justly  do  I  stand  reproved. 

All  too  lightly  I  forgot 

The  temptations  of  thy  lot ; 

Homely  duties  fitly  borne 

Match  the  prodigal's  return. 

Yea,  for  him  who  never  wandered, 

Not  less  than  for  him  who  squandered 

His  endowment,  should  there  be 

Fatted  calf  and  jubilee. 

(They  go  together  to  the  feast) 


THE  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN 
ADULTERY 

JESUS  sat  in  the  treasury, 
Answering  scribe  and  Pharisee 
Questions  of  law  and  subtlety. 

Thither  a  woman  to  him  they  brought 
In  the  act  of  adultery  caught, 
Worthy  of  death,  as  Moses  taught ; 

Knowing  that  Jesus'  teachings  were 
Love  and  mercy  for  all  that  err, 
Asked  him  what  they  should  do  with 
her. 

Stooping,  Jesus  wrote  on  the  floor 
Something  the  wise  men  pondered  o'er — 
Hid  from  the  world  forevermore. 

'  *  He  that  hath  no  sins  of  his  own 
May  be  the  first,  and  he  alone, 
At  the  woman  to  cast  a  stone." 
32 


The  Woman  Taken  in  Adultery    33 

This  is  the  judgment  the  judges  heard ; 
Thence  they  slunk  with  never  a  word ; 
Neither  he  nor  the  woman  stirred. 

After  a  silence  Jesus  said : 
"Whither  are  thine  accusers  fled? 
Hath  none  against  thee  witnessed?" 

Answered  the  woman  humbly,  "No." 
"Cease  from  sin/'  said  Jesus;  "and  lo! 
Neither  do  I  condemn  thee.     Go." 

Natheless  the  woman  did  not  rise ; 
Lifted  only  her  shame-red  eyes, 
Gazing  at  Jesus  in  helpless  wise: 

"  Death  and  shame  await  me  whether 
I  turn  me  hither  or  turn  me  thither : 
Go,  sayest  thou;  but,  Master,  whither?" 

Did  Jesus  leave  her  lying  low? 
Gladly  the  puzzled  world  would  know 
Whither  the  Master  bade  her  go. 


HEAVEN  AND  HELL 

HP  HE   preacher   paused  at  paragraph 
1       Eight, 

In  the  midst  of  Paradise ; 
From  One  to  Six  he  had  painted  the  fate 

Of  the  victims  of  wilful  vice, 
And  now  he  allured  to  a  nobler  life 

With  visions  of  future  bliss, 
Where  ease  shall  atone  for  present  strife 

And  the  next  world  balance  this. 

But  ere  he  could  take  up  caput  Nine 

Some  one  opened  the  outer  door, 
And  heads  were  turned  down  the  main 
aisle  line 

At  the  sound  of  feet  on  the  floor ; 
A  woman  with  eyes  that  brooked  no  bar 

Strode  through  the  gallery  arch, 
In  her  right  hand  bearing  a  water- jar 

And  in  her  left  a  torch. 
34 


Heaven  and  Hell  35 

The  preacher  lifted  his  solemn  eyes 

And  mildly  shook  his  head ; 
He  gazed  at  the  woman  in  grieved  sur- 
prise 

Who  had  broken  his  sermon's  thread ; 
He  raised  his  voice  while  she  still  was  far 

And  hoped  to  stay  her  march  : 
"What  would  you  here  with  your  water- 
jar, 

And  what  would  you  here  with  the 
torch?" 

"A  shame,"  she  cried,  "on  your  coward 
creed ! 

And  have  you  no  faith  in  man? 
I  bear  this  witness  'gainst  fear  and  greed, 

I  burn  and  quench  as  I  can: 
The  torch  I  bear  to  set  heaven  afire 

And  the  water  to  put  out  hell, 
That  men  may  cease  to  do  good  for  hire, 

And  the  evil  from  fear  to  quell." 

She  came  near  the  altar  and  swung  her 

torch, 
And  dashed  the  water  around, 


36  Heaven  and  Hell 

Then  turned  and  passed  through  aisle 

and  through  porch, 
While  the  people  sat  spell-bound. 
She  walks  the  earth  with  her  emblems 

dire 

And  she  works  her  mission  well : 
The  torch  to  set  high  heaven  afire 
And  the  water  to  put  out  hell. 


PEACE  ON  EARTH,  GOOD  WILL  TO 
WOMEN 

'  HP  IS  nearly  nineteen  hundred  years 
1        Since    the  Judean  shepherds 

heard 
Peal  from  the  solemn,  starlit  sky 

The  one  supreme,  long-needed  word, — • 
Needed  as  sadly  now  as  then: 
"Peace  and  good  will  on  earth  to  men." 
Alas !  they  caught  no  chord  that  hymn  in 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  women. 

Down  the  stern  centuries  since  that  night 

The  angel  prophecy  has  thrilled, 
Aye  echoing  through  the  upper  air ; 

On  earth  it  still  is  unfulfilled. 
Men  hear  the  song,  strife  does  not  cease; 
Never  will  come  the  age  of  peace 
Until  the  carol  with  new  vim  in 
Brings   peace   on   earth,    good   will   to 
women. 

37 


38  Peace  on  Earth,  Good  Will  to  Women 

The  potentates  of  Christendom 

Preach    peace    to-day   with    Gatling- 

guns ; 

Statesmen,  to  spread  good  will  on  earth, 
Make  cannon-food  of  mothers'  sons; 
Yet  even  in  the  hot  battle's  breath 
The   Red   Cross  soothes    the   pangs   of 

death, 

While  eyes  the  light  of  life  grows  dim  in 
Pray,   "Peace  on  earth,   good  will  to 

women." 

To  man  the  race,  not  men  the  sex, 
The  message  from  on  high  was  sent; 

These  weary  centuries  in  vain 

Men  sought,  alone,  the  Christ's  intent. 

Now,  with  new-dowered  inner  ear, 

In  the  angelic  strain  we  hear 

A  swelling    theme,  the    round  world's 
rim  in, — 

"Peace    and    good    will    to    men    and 
women!" 


AN  HONEST  CHRISTENING 

THE  MOTHER 

MY  God, 
I  pledge  this  child  to  Thee, 
To  serve  Thee  three  score  years  and  ten. 

Although  Thine  image  is  in  me 
So  spoilt,  Thou  scarce  wouldst  know  't 

again, —  - 

So  warped  from  its  sacred  uses, 
So  scarred  and  twisted  by  abuses 
My  own  life  is  but  half  alive, 
I  see  not  how  my  babe  can  thrive, — 
Yet  grant  this  prayer  to  me. 
I  pledge  this  child  to  Thee, 
My  God. 

THE  FATHER 

O  Lord, 

My  fathers'  God, 

I  pledge  this  child  to  all  things  good. 
I  know  that  passion's  lava-flood 
From  the  first  hour  consumes  its  blood ; 
39 


40  An  Honest  Christening 

Thou   knowest   the   quenchless   poison- 
thirst 

That  long  my  father's  house  has  cursed, 
This  is  my  babe's  inheritance: 
Passion,  disease,  intemperance. 

And  yet,  O  Lord, 

My  fathers'  God, 
I  pledge  this  child  to  all  things  good. 


THE  i3TH  VENDEMIAIRE 
ST.  ROCH,  PARIS,  1881 

FACING   these   steps   he   stood — the 
man  of  fate — 
Nearly  a  hundred  years  ago — a  young 

man  then — 
New  in  the  world  and  only  a  few  years 

out  of  his  mother's  arms; 
All  the  thousands  of  restless  women  and 

men 
Now  in  the  streets  and  the  shops  were 

dust  and  ashes  then; 
All  that  saw  him  here,  save  the  church 

walls  and  the  sun, 
Are  gone  now,  who  knows  where?  and 

the  day,  too,  it  is  gone. 
Down  the  little  street  and  there  where 

the  houses  are 
Came  the  citizen  troops,  as  they  thought, 

in  a  righteous  war — 
41 


42  The  i}th  Vendemiaire 

Law  and  order  and  right  against  anarchy 

and  wrong. 
Was  it  the  will  of  a  single  man — a  hired 

machine — 
Or  the  vast  design  of  God  that  gave  the 

order  to  fire  ? 
Strange  how  little  we  know!    But  if  the 

order  had  failed, 
Or  the  advancing  lines  had  been  a  little 

more  strong, 
Thousands  of  lives  like  ours  that  were 

spent  for  a  good  unseen — 
By  them  or  us — had  passed  in  peace 

and  joy. 
Thousands    of    hearts    that   bled,    and 

voices  that  wailed 
For    the    husbands,   lovers,    and    sons 

whose  bones    were    scattered    by 

him 
Over  the  charnel-house  of  Europe  for 

twenty  years, 
Had  throbbed  and  sung  their  joys  a 

lifetime  as  ours  do  now. 
But   we   who   know   the   whole   would 

scarce  have  chosen  this  way, 


The  ijth  Vend6miaire  43 

The  way  of  ruin  and  woe,  as  the  way  of 

beauty  and  love ; — 
Was  it  the  voice  of  the  will  of  a  man 

like  us — 
Blind  and  cruel  and  selfish — that  gave 

the  order  to  fire, 
Or  the  hidden  purpose  of  God?     It  is 

hard  to  say. 

Yonder  on  Belgium's  plain,  where  the 

British  lion  stands 
With  conquering  paw  on  the  world,  his 

end  came  too. 
Twenty  years  of  war,  of  anguish,  ruin, 

and  death, 
Between  this  day  and  that — and  here 

the  beginning  of  all. 
Can  it  be  that  in  him,  that  one  small, 

silent  man, 
With  his  sluggish  pulse  that  beat  but 

one  to  our  two, 
The  seed  of  this  whole  bitter  tree  was 

lying  on  that  day? 
Only  a  single  word, — if  God  had  not 

wished  it  so, 


44  The  1 3th  Vendemiaire 

He  might  have  stopped  him  then,   it 

seems ;  a  wandering  ball 
Had  changed  the  course  of  the  world — 

but  it  must  be 
That  this  heartless  servant  of  death  was 

God's  servant  too. 

Only  a  word — and  the  great,  cold,  grin- 
ning guns 
Spoke  with  a  voice  whose  echoes  lasted 

for  twenty  years ; 
And  there  where  the  houses  are  and  the 

careless  people  go, 
Lay  the  soulless  bodies  of  men,  their 

blood  where  the  water  flows, 
Stood  the  wavering  ranks  of  the  living 

soon  to  die. 
Two  short  hours,  and  all  was  over,  the 

harvest  begun. 
The  steps  and  the  walls  of  the  church — 

God's  house — they  do  not  blush 
For  the  shame  they  saw  that  day — God 

must  have  wished  it  so. 
Little  we  know  of  His  ways — we  are 

blind ;  let  us  go. 


THE  PHANTOM  GUEST 

WE  pull  together  in  the  yoke 
Of  duty,  neither  shirking; 
I  long  to  praise  that  heart  of  oak, 

But  shrink,  and  keep  on  working; 
Yet  oft  I  think  what  I  should  feel 

And  say,  should  aught  betide  him, — 
If  he  were  lying  cold  and  still 
And  I  stood  warm  beside  him. 

We  two  are  rivals  in  the  race; 

He  wins  the  prize  I  covet ; 
I  hate  him  frankly  and  lack  grace 

To  keep  my  heart  above  it ; 
Yet  hate  would  be  a  tale  that 's  told, 

And  gladly  I  'd  abide  him, 
If  he  were  lying  still  and  cold 

And  I  stood  warm  beside  him. 

'T  is  years  that  we  have  been  estranged, 
Well-nigh  forgot  the  reason; 

All  but  our  cursed  pride  has  changed, 
Changed  with  the  changing  season; 
45 


46  The  Phantom  Guest 

Yet  I  could  weep  for  him  until 

His  numb,  dumb  heart  should  chide 
him, 

If  he  were  lying  cold  and  still 
And  I  stood  warm  beside  him. 

How  many  hates  would  be  as  not, 

How  many  wrongs  be  righted, 
Kind  words  be  spoken,  now  forgot, 

Deeds  done  that  now  are  slighted, 
If  each  man  had,  like  them  of  old, 

This  phantom  guest  to  guide  him, — 
His  fellow  lying  still  and  cold, 

Himself  all  warm  beside  him I 


THE  SONG  BEHIND  THE  SHUTTER 

I   WALK  the  streets  at  night  alone, 
The  white  lights  stare  and  sputter, 
My  feet   keep   time  on  the  pavement  - 

stone 
To  the  song  behind  the  shutter. 

Behind  the  shutter  the  good  folk  sit; 

By  the  mirth  that  follows  after 
I  note  the  burst  of  each  sally  of  wit, 

I  hear  their  glee  and  laughter. 

Their  glee  and  laughter  flow  unchecked 

By  any  haunting  pity 
For  the  helmless  bark  that  is  drifting 
wrecked 

On  the  joyous  shores  of  their  city. 

Alone  at  night  I  walk  the  streets, 
The  white  lights  stare  and  sputter; 

For  hours  my  homeless  heart  repeats 
The  song  behind  the  shutter. 


47 


VON  FERNE 

AS  one  who  from  his  faithful  house- 
hold goes 

Upon  a  distant  journey,  set  about 
With    unknown    dangers,   yet    looks 

bravely  out 
Beyond  the  toils  and  troubles  that  he 

knows 

Will  settle  on  his  future  like  the  snows 
Of  winter,  and  he  dreams  of  that  glad 

day 
When  home   no  longer  shall  be  far 

away, 
And  cheers  his  spirit  thus  when  faith 

burns  low — 

So  I  here  on  the  border  of  these  years 
Through  which  my  feet  must  wander 

all  alone, 
Heart-weary,   have   one    only  thought 

that  cheers: 
That  after  all   the  bitter  days  have 

flown, 
And  after  all  the  heart-ache  and  the 

tears, 

My  faithful  love  at  last  may  claim  its 
own. 

48 


UNWEIT  DEM  ZIEL 

THE  wanderer  who  has  left  his  home 
behind 

To  seek  a  happier  one  'neath  other  skies, 
After  long  days  on  comfortless  ways 

that  rise 
And  turn,  footsore  and  heartsore,  eyes 

tearblind, 
Mounting  a  higher  peak  than  others,  will 

find 
A  glorious  vision   of  the  longed-for 

place 

Stretching  sun-kissed  along  the  moun- 
tain's base, 
Then  goes  on  cheered  and  strengthened, 

body  and  mind. 
After  unsatisfied   yearnings  and  great 

fears 
Such  vision  has  this  summer  been  to 

me, 
Full  of  unspeakable  happiness  with 

thee, 

Into  the  not-far,  ah!  but  too-far  years 
When  such  a  summer  all  our  life  shall 

be,— 

And    short   the    onward    journey    now 
appears. 

4  49 


HEIM 

\  X  7"HOM  all  the   choir  has   sung  as 
V  V      wayward,  coy, 
A  dear  delusion,  always  just  ahead, 
But  never  to  a  son  of  mortal  wed, 
Given  but  to  lure  us  on  forever,  Joy! 
A  resting-place  she  's  found  that  does 

not  cloy, 
And  she  has  made  her  lasting  home 

with  me ; 
Sweeter  she  found  the  days  with  Love 

and  thee 
Than  heartless  with  a  million  hearts  to 

toy. 

Ah,  with  what  flowing  heart  of  thank- 
fulness 
I   think  of  thee  to  whom  all  this  I 

owe, — 

The  better  life,  the  hope,  the  peaceful- 
ness 

Of  spirit,  and  the  happiness  I  know; 
I  thank  thee,  and  I  pray  that  God  may 

bless, 

And  grant  that  stronger  still  our  love 
may  grow. 

50 


IMMERGRUEN 

winds  and  gloomy  skies  are 
driving  fast 
The  summer's  glory   southward;  life 

runs  low; 

Despairingly  the  helpless  leaves  let  go 
And  tremble  graveward  on  the  heartless 

blast; 
The  feathered  minnesingers,  too,  have 

passed 
To  happier  lands  where  death   and 

winter  rob  not ; 
Nature's  great  heart  seems  still,  her 

pulses  throb  not; 
O'er  all  the  world  despair  and  gloom  are 

cast. 
Without,  despair,  but,  God!  what  joy 

within ! 
A  happiness  that,  thought  of,  makes 

me  start; 
Unfading  blooms   and   songs  undying, 

when 
From  outward  nature  all  her  charms 

depart, — 

For  from  the  sunshine  of  thy  love  I  win 
An    everlasting    springtime    in     my 
heart. 

51 


A  GREETING 

/COURAGE  and  hope  go  with  thee,  who 
^        hast  been 
Courage  and  hope  to  those  thou  leav'st 

behind. 
Swift  as  thou  run'st  thy  errand  of  the 

mind 
Our  swifter  thoughts  outspeed  thee  still,  I 

ween, 

And  go  before  thee  all  unheard,  unseen, 
Forming  a  presence  that  shall  make 

more  kind 

The  rude  caresses  of  the  salty  wind, 
More  restful  still  the  old  town  bowered  in 

green. 
Behold,  the  days  are  dust  that  glitters  and 

falls, 
The  years  but  as  the  briefest  summer 

night, — 

Scarce  dark,  and  dawn  is  on  the  east- 
ward slope. 
Two  things  abide:  the  mighty  spirit  whose 

calls 
Thou  followest  seaward,  and  that  love 

whose  light 

More  swiftly  follows   thee.  Courage 
and  hope  ! 

ARTHUR  GRAVES  CANFIELD. 
52 


AN  ANSWER 

IN  these   scholastic   glooms,  my  hand 
still  warm 
With  that  fond  parting  from  my  West, 

my  world, 

If  from  the  dark  behind  a  coward  arm 
At  my  bowed  head  some  poisoned 

lance  had  hurled, 
I  could  have  borne  it  well.     As  the  sharp 

blast 
Brings  back  the  life  to  one  about  to 

faint, 
Such  an  attack  had  made  my  hands 

clench  fast 

And  set  lips  send  defiance,  not  com- 
plaint. 

But  thy  dear  benison  falls  on  my  heart 
Like    kindly    sunshine    on    a  frozen 

slope, 

Melting  my  numbing   will,  and  down- 
ward start 
The  hot  and  homesick  tears.     Yet  will 

I  hope 
The  mellowed  soil  thus  moistened  may 

bring  forth 

A  better  harvest  than  that  icy  earth. 
53 


IN    ABSENCE— TO   HER   PICTURE 

WHEN  the  hour  comes  for  putting 
out  the  light 

I  go  to  greet  thy  picture  at  the  last 
And  the  dear  eyes  resistless  hold  me 

fast — 
I  cannot  blot  that  sweetness  with   the 

night; 
I  stay  my  breath,  the  salt  mist  blinds 

my  sight, 
But  still,  love-lustrous  when  the  mist 

is  past, 
Reproachful  trust  those  dear  orbs  on 

me  cast, 

And  guilty  sorrow  overcomes  me  quite. 
E'en   so,   meseems,   in   fierce   Othello's 

breast 

The   strife   ran,   when  with   purpose 
passion-fired 
54 


In  Absence — To  Her  Picture       55 

He    gazed    on    that    fair    sleeper, 

doomed  to  death 

Unknowing.     Then    with    jealous- 
poisoned  breath 
He  quenched  that  light  forever.     I, 

inspired 

By  thy  dear  will,  snuff  mine,  and  go 
to  rest. 


WASTED  SUNSHINE 

DEAR  God,  thy  gentle  sunlight  falls 
Adown  the  shimmering  green 
So  lovingly  on  these  cold  walls 
And  the  bright  turf  between. 

It  falls  so  pitilessly  sweet 
Across  my  lonesome  way, — 

Its  comfort  lies  about  my  feet 
In  vain,  this  weary  day. 

For  like  a  blow  my  heart  doth  smite 

The  autumn's  golden  glory, 
As  do  the  rays  of  heaven's  light 

The  souls  in  purgatory. 

Dear  God,  thy  blessed  sunlight  falls 
Athwart  my  glooming  heart, 

But  leaves  it  cold  as  these  cold  walls 
The  while  we  are  apart. 


SONG  AT  SUNSET 

THE  sun  goes  down  in  the  west, 
To  the  land    where    the   evening 
star 

Hangs  bright  on  the  evening's  breast,— 
To  the  land  where  my  loved  ones  are. 

But  the  sun,  when  the  night  is  done, 
Comes  up  o'er  the  bitter  main; 

Ah,  if  I  were  the  setting  sun 
I  never  should  rise  again! 


57 


FAITH 

ALTHOUGH    I    know   she   is   miles 
away, 
I  search  for  her  face  in  the  crowd  all 

day; 

My  hungry  eyes  wander  like  Noah's  dove 
And  find  in  the  man-flood  no  sign  of  my 
love. 

I  know  it  is  foolish,  but  eyes  are  too  true 

To  give  up  the  quest,  though  they  've 
never  a  clue ; 

One  day  they  shall  find  the  one  face 
'neath  the  sun 

And  the  parting  and  longing  and  watch- 
ing be  done. 


WHEN  MY  LADY-LOVE  LIVED 
HERE 

ONCE  this  street  was  holy  ground, 
And  the  friendly  walls  around 
Seemed  to  smile  as  I  came  near, 
When  my  lady-love  lived  here. 

So  to-day  I  sought  the  place, 
Homesick  for  her  blessed  face, 
And  the  senseless  walls  of  stone 
Made  me  feel  the  more  alone. 

Henceforth  I  will  guard  my  feet 
When  they  wander  toward  this  street, 
Desolate  now  as  it  was  dear 
When  my  lady-love  lived  here. 

When  the  spirit  goes  away 
Shall  I  shun  its  house  of  clay? 
Shall  I  only  say,  How  drear, 
Since  my  love  's  no  longer  here? 


59 


SHE  WAS  ALONG 

WHEN  last  I  went  this  way 
The  swaying  elms  among, 
It  was  a  joyous  day — 
She  was  along. 

When  the  grand  arch  of  sky, 
The  great  air  sweet  and  strong 

Drew  forth  my  soul's  reply, 
She  was  along. 

A  haunting  faint  perfume 

Steals  o'er  me  mid  the  throng; 

When  last  I  smelled  that  bloom 
She  was  along. 

A  wild  and  nameless  pain 
Distracts  me  in  the  song; 

Joy  once  was  in  the  strain — 
She  was  along. 

Could  I  wipe  out  the  past, 
Would  I  thus  do  her  wrong? 

Shall  I  regret  at  last 
She  was  along? 


60 


AFTER  A  WHILE 

AFTER  a  while  the  goal  I  failed  to 
.     gain 
Will  tease  my  heart  no   more,  but 

sink  from  view; 
The  sting  of  loss  will  ease  its  sharper 

pain, 

And  life's  invincible  joyousness  anew 
My  soul  beguile 
After  a  while. 

After  a  while  I  shall  not  greatly  care 
Whether  my  foes  are  fierce  or  friends 

are  true; 

I  shall  be  satisfied  to  do  my  share, 
Nor  jealously  insist  upon  my  due, 
Nor  fate  revile, 
After  a  while. 

61 


62  After  a  While 

After  a  while  it  wijl  not  hurt  so  sore 
To  look  upon  the  spot  she  loved  so 

well; 
I  shall  not  feel  so  lonesome  when  the 

door 
Opens  and  she  comes  not,  missing  the 

spell 

Of  her  sweet  smile, 
After  a  while. 

After  a  while  the  night  will  pass  away, — 
The  long,  long  night  of  waiting  and  of 

woe; 
My  soul  has  longed  for  day  or  death,  but 

day 

Must  come,  must  come,  though  spec- 
ter-filled and  slow 
The  hours  defile, 
After  a  while. 


AND  SO  WE  TWO  MUST  PART 
AT  LAST 

AND  so  the  thing  we  feared  has  come, 
And  so  we  two  must  part  at 
last,— 

We  who  had  said  it  could  not  be, 
So  often  in  the  past. 

We   shared   a   pinched   and   struggling 
youth, 

We  fought  each  other's  battles  all, 
We  kept  each  other's  hopes  alive 

Through  bitterness  and  gall. 

We  mourned  when  others'  loves  were 
lost, 

More  closely  each  to  each  we  drew; 
Seeing  their  faith  in  life  go  out 

Our  hearts  together  grew. 

Our  paths  led  onward  side  by  side; 

The  night  came  down,  but  aye  serene 
Into  the  gloom  we  walked,  assured 

That  nought  could  come  between. 
63 


64  And  so  We  Two  must  Part  at  Last 

But  evil  powers  worked  in  the  dark; 

Though  near  we  heard  each  other's 

call, 
When  the  darkness  fled  the  rising  day, 

Between  us  rose  a  wall. 

And  though  the  voice   sound  aye  the 

same 
And  though  we  say  that  nought  has 

passed, 

The  evil  day  we  feared  so  long 
Has  come  on  us  at  last. 

This  was  the  last  bond  of  our  youth, 
By  this  we  know  that  we  are  men ; 

But  we  never  again  can  love  a  man 
As  we  loved  each  other  then. 


THE  TOUCH  OF  TIME 

THE  very  smile  of  God 
Lighted  the  feet  that  trod 
Love's  rosy  path  one  sweet,  indelible 

day; 

How  hardly  you  had  said 
That  smile  could  ever  fade 
Or  that  great  splendor  ever  pass  away! 

Yet  the  day  had  its  close ; 

Another  morning  rose, 
Bright,  but  yet  dull  to  what  that  day 
did  give; 

Not  twice  can  human  eyes 

Endure  the  vast  surprise 
To  look  upon  the  face  of  God,  and  live. 

Now,  tempered  and  subdued, 
Fitted  to  mortal  mood, 
$  65 


66  The  Touch  of  Time 

The  chastened  light  suffuses  every  hour; 

The  generous  heavens  throw 

A  pleasing  afterglow 
On  other  hearts,  of  Love's  transfiguring 
power. 

For  you,  dear  one, 

The  warm,  white  sun 

Faded  one  day  mid-sky, 

Grew  faint  and  cold  and  high, 
Seemed  to  mock  you  with  its  glare, 
Its  unsympathetic  stare ; 

And  you  fled  to  the  gloom 

Of  your  empty  room, 
And  the  cold  about  your  heart 
Made  you  start, 

Made  you  shiver, 

And  think  of  the  quiet  of  the  river, 
And  wonder  if  the  sun  would  ever  dare 
to  shine  again. 

But  the  implacable  day 
Rose  prompt  and  mocking-warm, 

(Ah,    if    you    might   have   had    a 

week's  delay — 
Of  night  and  storm !) 


The  Touch  of  Time  67 

But  the  threads  began  to  draw, 
Unseen,  scarce  felt,  of  Mother  Nature's 

law: 

A  homely  duty  here, 
A  mean  act  there, 
That  roused  the  heat  of  wrath  in  your 

cold  heart; 

A  hand  for  help  held  out, 
And  all  about 

Pervasive    habit   with    her   comforting 
arms. 

So  day  by  day 

The  winter  wore  away ; 

Life  gained  again  his  own, 

And  Love  regained  his  throne — 
Not  less  nor  more, 

But  wiser,  stronger,  and   serener  than 
before. 


ENTSCHLAFEN 

OFT  when  the  mother's  hands  have 
laid 

To  quiet  sleep  her  babe  so  dear 
Her  heart  stands  still  with   sudden 

fear 
Lest  this  be  Death  in  masquerade. 

When  the  last  silence  of  our  clay 
Falls  on  the  blossom  lips  that  late 
Spake  blessings  inarticulate 

And  tried  her  name  but  yesterday, 

The  mother's  heart  with  hope  will  leap — 
So  faithful  is  the  counterfeit — 
While  something  whispers  low  to  it, 

4 'Thy  little  one  has  fallen  asleep. " 

Ah,  heaven,  the  dumb  mystery 
That  lies  below  the  unopening  eye ! 
Named  with  the  name  that  withers 

joy, 

At  least  we  know  not  else  of  thee. 
68 


Entschlafen  69 

And  thou  dear  Saxon  mother-tongue, 
When  the  loved  form  lies  cold  and 

stark, 
When  hope  is  sick  and  nature  dark, 

And  all  the  deep  heartstrings  are  wrung, 

When  round  the  grave  the  mourners 

weep 

Thank  Heaven  for  thy  sweet  comfort- 
ing, 

As  the  priest's  voice  prays  quavering, 
"Our  little  one  has  fallen  asleep. " 


NATURE'S  EPITAPH 

WHO  knows  where  the  graveyard  is 
Where  the  fox  and  the  eagle  lie  ? 
Who  has  seen  the  obsequies 
Of  the  red  deer  when  they  die? 

With  death  they  steal  away 

Out  of  the  sight  of  the  sun; 
Out  of  the  sight  of  the  living,  they 

Pay  the  debt  and  are  done. 

No  marble  marks  the  place; 

The  common  forest  brown 
Covers  them  over  with  Quaker  grace 

Just  where  they  laid  them  down. 

But  a  few  years,  if  you  see 

In  summer  a  deeper  green 
Here  and  there,  it  is  like  to  be 

The  spot  where  their  bones  have  been. 

Thus,  not  more,  to  the  poor  dead  year: 
No  grave,  nor  ghostly  stone, 

But  a  greener  life  and  a  warmer  cheer 
Be  the  only  sign  that  he  's  gone. 


CHILDHOOD  IN  THE  SLUMS 

THESE  little  lips  have  learned 
The  language  of  wrath  and  sin, 
And  the   cheeks  of  one  unused  grow 

pale 
At  the  sounds  his  ears  take  in. 

Yet  the  thoughtless,  unkind  word 
On  the  o'erwrought  mother's  part 

Has  found  its  way  past  the  tiger  spots 
And  broken  the  childish  heart. 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY 

M.  H. 

THROUGH   life's    enchanted    palace 
did  she  keep 
Her  joyous  way,  heart-sunshine  in  her 

face 

And  on  her  lips  a  benedicial  grace, 
And  eyes,  it  seemed,  that  knew  not  how 

to  weep. 
Then  came  a  jealous  fate;  sudden  and 

deep 
He  thrust  the  poisoned  thorn ;  a  little 

space, 
And  silence  falls  and  darkness  o'er  the 

place — 
And  she  and  all  the  palace  with  her  sleep. 

There  she  lies  spellbound  sleeping,  while 

the  hedge 
Of  rose-thorned  time  divides  us  more 

each  day, 

Until  the  Lord  of  Love  Immortal  make 
72 


The  Sleeping  Beauty  73 

The  thorns  turn  into  bloom,  hope's  rosy 

pledge, 
And  on  her  waiting  lips  His  warm  kiss 

lay, 
And  she  and  all  the  palace  with  her 

wake. 


O  GRAVE,  WHERE  IS  THY 
VICTORY? 

C.  A.  G. 

FOR  twenty   years  did  Nature  wait 
without, 

Besetting  that  storm-beaten  tenement, 
Claiming  her  debt ;  from  door  to  door 

she  went, 

Rude  battering  with  all  her  hostile  rout. 
And    we    who    helpless    waiting    stood 

about, 
While  frail  walls  tottered  and  light 

bolts  were  bent, 
Dreading  each  day  to  see  some  fatal 

rent, 
We  marvelled  how  that  house  should 

prove  so  stout. 
But  Love  was  there,  the  lord  of  Life  and 

Death, 
And  held  the  importunate  enemy  at 

bay; 

Yet  when  his  work  was  done,  all 
peacefully 

74 


O  Grave,  Where  Is  Thy  Victory?  75 

As  dawn  grows  day,  Life  yielded  up  his 

breath, 

Surrendering  to  a  vanquished  en- 
emy, 

And  took  Love's   hand  in    his   and 
went  away. 


THE  SETTING 

C.  A.  G. 

HIS  lesser  gems  the  lapidary  sets 
In  cunning  marvels  of  the  gold- 
smith's art, 

Whose  fretted  bars  and  filigrees  im- 
part 

An  added  brilliance  to  their  starry  jets; 

But  the  great  balls  of  diamond  fire  he  lets 

Into  plain  circlets  whence  contrasted 

dart 
Their  lambent  glories,  dazzling  in  such 

sort 
That  the  rapt  sight  the  setting  clean 

forgets. 

God  put  the  luminous  soul  of  her  who  past 
Into  that  frail  and  anguish-stricken 

frame, 

That  its  supernal  splendor  might  con- 
trast 
With  its  sad  setting,  till  the  living 

flame 
Burned  the  slight  dross  away,  and  at  the 

last 

Transfigured  to  the  Master's  crown 
she  came. 

76 


ON  ONE  WHO  DIED  IN 
CHILDBIRTH 

N.  T.  H. 

LONE,"   we  groan,   when  others 

die,  "alone!" 
Out  of  the  joyous  sunlight  of  this 

earth, 

Through  the  dark  portals  of  the  sec- 
ond birth 

Into  the  limitless  Unknown,  alone! 
Ah,  sad  to  stand  before  His  splendid 

throne, 

Or  wander  wistful  mid  celestial  mirth, 
The  human  heart  still  hungry  with 

love's  dearth, 
In  all  that  City  of  God  alone  unknown! 

How  kinder  Death  to  her!    Behind  the 

veil, 

The  sun-bright  shadow  cast  athwart 
our  night, 

77 


78     On  One  Who  Died  in  Childbirth 

Her     angel    lingered,    lest    her    heart 

should  fail, 
Until,  their  souls  well  knit,  they  passed 

away, 
Pure  of  the  earth  with  pure  of  heaven 

anight 
Through  God's  wide  fields,  communing 

all  the  day. 


HAGEN  UND  VOLKER 

c.  P.  s. 

(  Nibelungenlied,  Abenteur  29) 

IN  Etzel's  land  they  sat  long  years  ago 
In  the  tense  evening  of  that   fatal 

day; 
On    Hagen's   knees    a   naked    sword 

there  lay, 

And  Volker  stroked   his  baleful  fiddle- 
bow. 

So  the  Fair  Vengeance  found  them  coun- 
selling low ; 

No  greeting  but  defiance  offered  they 
To  her  fierce  menaces,  and  kept  at  bay 
With  grim,  sad  eyes  the  wily  Hunnish 
foe. 

When  insolent  Fate,  with  doom  in  either 

hand 

Came  lording  on  us  as  we  sat  alone 
79 


8o  Hagen  und  Volher 

Before  the  battle,  friend,  we  did  not 

rise, 
But  each  read  fealty  in  the  other's 

eyes, 

And  like  those  doughty  Niblungs  daunt- 
less scanned 

Her    scowling    ministers,    and    faced 
them  down. 


WEEDS 

POR,  homely,  unloved  things  beside 
the  way, 

That  strive  in  voiceless  ignominy,  still 
Undaunted  though   downtrodden,  to 

fulfil 
Your    appointed    purpose!  Patient   the 

long  day 

Ye  take  the  bufferings  of  scornful  clay, 
Sustained  by  that  small  portion  of 

God's  dew 
Which  thick-strewn  dust  permits  to 

fall  on  you, 
And  live  where  finer  herbs  must  wilt 

away. 
Have  ye,  too,  dreams  of  better  things  to 

be: 
Of  worlds  in  which  the  crooked  shall 

be  straight, 
Where  all  that  are  in  bondage  shall  be 

free 

And  lifted  up  all  those  of  low  estate ; 
Where,  to  the  thought  that  knows  the 

potent  seeds, 
Weeds  shall  be  e'en  as  flowers,  flowers  as 

weeds  ? 
6  81 


ADAM'S  FIRST  SLEEP 

WHEN  that  first    sleep  on  father 
Adam  fell 
And  his  sweet  world  of  Eden  swooned 

away, 
Knowing  nor  sleep  nor  waking  till  that 

day 
He  had  no  other  thought  but  all  was 

well 

And  yielded  all-confiding  to  the  spell. 
Lo,  when  the  world  of  sense  resumed 

its  sway, 
Supernal  Eve,  sleep-born,  beside  him 

lay, 
And  joy  was  his  beyond  what  words  can 

tell. 
How  foolish,  then,  our  fears  of  that  last 

sleep ! 
No  more  than  Adam  of  the  end  we 

know. 
When  we  lie  down  at  last,  may  not  we 

keep 

Trust  that  the  reawakening  will  show 
Life  freed  from  clogs  of  error,  pain,  and 

pelf, 

The  old,  sweet  Eden,  but  a  nobler  self? 
82 


MOTHER,  WHAT  CHEER  ? 

MOTHER,  I  stand  upon  the  storm- 
whipt  shore 
Of  that  salt  flood  whose  sources  are 

our  tears, 
Whose  other  coast, — O  land  of  hopes 

and  fears! — 

No  man  knows  if  it  be,  forevermore. 
Mindful  of  thee  I  sadly  reckon  o'er 
The  clustering  blessings  of  these  later 

years ; 
My  sun-kissed  fields  are  full  of  bending 

ears, 

The  heaped  grain  lies  about  the  thresh- 
ing-floor. 
But   thou,   mother, — I   call   across   the 

flood 

If  haply  any  tiding  I  may  hear. 
Earth    was    a    flint-strewn    tread-mill 

where  the  blood 
From  thy  brave  feet  marks  out  thy 

sad  career, 

And  night  fell  ere  thou  sawest  the  dear- 
bought  good — 

I  call  across  the  wave — Mother,  what 
cheer? 

83 


SOMETHING    REMAINS 

FRIEND,  there  be  some  who  say  the 
gods  are  dead, 
And  all  the  grace  of  the  world's  earlier 

day 
And  lingering  light  of  heaven  passed 

away, 

And  the  fine  bloom  of  life  forever  shed; 
They  say  the  dryads  and  the  nymphs 

are  fled ; 
No  fauns  or  satyrs  in  the  clearings 

play, 
Ceres  and  Bacchus  with  their  bright 

array 

Winepress  and  threshing-floor  no  longer 
tread. 

But  never  Hesiod  tasted  sweeter  thing, 
Horace,  nor  Master  Walther  Vogel- 

weid, 

Than  I  who  sit  upon  a  carpet  fair 
Of   new-born   verdure,    in   this   joyous 

spring, 
God  in  my  heart,  my  dear  ones  at  my 

side, 

Glad  just  to  breathe  the  universal 
air. 

84 


TO  SOME  FRIENDS  MADE  LONG 
AGO  AT  SEA 

J.  M.  B. 

DEAR   phantoms   of   my   summer's 
golden  dream! 
Across  the  gulf  of  miles  and  years  I 

fling 
This  ghostly  greeting,  trusting  it  may 

sing 
No    swan-song    of    remembrance,    but 

redeem 
One    sweet    and    pleasant    thing    from 

Lethe's  stream, 

Ere  it  be  swept  away.     Fond  images 

Of  the  inconstant  air!  what  sorceries 

Shall  I  employ  to  make  you  what  you 

seem? 
If,  being  dreams,  I  know  that  ye  have 

been, 
How  can  I  know  less  surely  that  ye 

may 
Become  again  substantial,  and  within 

Some  interstellar  argosy  one  day, 
No  dear  one  missing,  we  may  meet  again, 
And  read  earth's  tales  to  while  the 
time  away. 

85 


GOD  KNEW  WHAT  STORMY  SEAS 

P.  D.  A. 

DEAR  uncomplaining,  sunny-hearted 
friend, 

The  storms  that  snap  thy  graver  fel- 
lows short, 
The  waves  that  make  our  destinies 

their  sport, 
Leave  thee  still  undismayed.     The  floods 

descend 
On  thy  unroof  e*d  home;  the  big  clouds 

send 

Merciless  hail  intent  to  blot  thee  out; 
Unfaltering  above  the  ruin  and  rout 
Thy  clear  voice  rings  serene  unto  the  end. 
I  marvel  much  what  spiritual  mail 
Thus  keeps  thee  scatheless;  yet  let  no 

man  think 
Unbroken   is   unfeeling, — thou'dst    not 

quail, 
But  still  be  cheerful  on  the  grave's 

sharp  brink : 
God  knew  what  stormy  seas  thy  bark 

should  sail, 

And  made  it  buoyant  that  it  might  not 
sink. 

86 


LIEDER  OHNE  WORTE 

L.  E.  S. 

THE   high,   unearthly    sweetness    of 
these  airs, 
Wrung  out  long,  long  ago  by  love  and 

grief 
From  the  great  master's  heartstrings, 

for  relief 
Thrilling  thus  passionately  through  the 

years 
Rather  than  break  outright,  into  our 

ears 
Steals  softly,  unannounced — a  kindly 

thief,— 
And,  breathing  on  our  dusty  strings, 

in  brief 
Sets  them  to  singing,  and  we  stand  in 

tears. 
Type  of  the  joys  and  woes  of  thousands, 

worn 

Serenely  and  untrumpeted,  but  turned 
87 


88  Lieder  ohne  Worte 

Into  the  voiceless  music  of  loving 

deeds, 
Whose  influence  ineffable  is  borne 

Round  the  great  globe  to  cheerless 

souls  that  yearned 
In  darkness  for  this  answer  to  their 
needs. 


A  POET  TO  A  VIOLINIST 

1CAN  set  words  in  order ;  I  can  charm 
With    thoughts   the    heart   divined 

but  could  not  speak ; 
Can  with  the  call  of  honor  flush  the 

cheek 

Or  blanch  it  with  the  echoes  of  alarm. 
But  puny  are  my  powers  to  thine  arm, 
Who  wieldst  the  master-bow.     Thou 

needst  not  seek 

The  utterance,  inadequate  and  weak, 
Of  language  and  the  stumbling  stilts  of 
form. 

From  that  quaint  casket,  spanned  with 

throbbing  chords, 
As  't  were  my  heartstrings,  thou  canst 

voices  draw 

Ineffably  sad,  soft,  inarticulate  words; 
Canst  rule  my  soul  against  my  reason's 

law, 
Rouse  yearnings  that  no  language  can 

express 
And  break  my  heart  for  very  tenderness. 


89 


CHARLES  ROBINSON  OF  KANSAS 

WHEN  the  great  ice-floes  from  the 
pole  moved  down 

To  plow  and  harrow  the  mid-continent, 
Upon  them  rode  the  granite  masses, 

rent 
In  passing  from  the  mountains  gray  and 

brown 
Of  the  still,  frozen  North.     Men  see  them 

crown 
The    midland     knolls,     their    errant 

forces  spent, 

In  splendid  isolation  eloquent, 
Seeming  at  times  to  smile,  at  times  to 

frown. 
Of     such    stern    substance    was    our 

Robinson. 
He  rode  the  human  drift — yet  steered, 

no  less — 
That  blest  the  West  with  men  of 

Mayflower  stock; 
Conscious  of  strength  he  loved  to  stand 

alone, 
Steadfast  and  cool  amid  the  storm 

and  stress, 

On  Kansas  plains  a  piece  of  Ply- 
mouth Rock. 
90 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 
(Died  June  13,  1878) 

EVEN  as  the  glowing  sun  sinks  in  the 
west 

After  a  perfect  cloudless  summer  day, 
Brim  full  of  busy  hours  and  minutes 

gay 

That  with  its  genial  beams  have  been 

caressed, 

His  tireless  hands  have  found  their  well- 
earned  rest 
After    these    many    toilful,    fruitful 

years, 

And  full  of  light  his  life  sun  disappears 
From  all  the  grateful  scenes  its  rays  had 

blessed. 
In  him  dumb   Nature  found  a  skilful 

tongue 
For  all  the  thoughts  wherewith  her 

breast  is  rife ; 
Old  Homer's  harp,  by  him  most  sweetly 

strung, 
Has    twanged    Odysseus'  woes    and 

Ilion's  strife ; 

But  yet  of  all  the  songs  this  minstrel  sung 
The  noblest  was  the  poem  of  his  life. 
91 


TO  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER 

J.  M.  M. 

(In  memory  of  a  visit  to  the  poet  by  two 
friends,  one  from  South  Carolina,  the  other 
from  Kansas.) 

BENIGNANT  spirit,  to  thy  hallowed 
seat 
Led  by  the  homage  due  to  seer  and 

sage, 
Came  late  two  children  of  the  newer 

age 

To  sit  a  deathless  hour  at  thy  feet; 
One  from  the  freshened  ardor  and  gener- 
ous heat 

Of  the  palmetto's  twice-bought  heri- 
tage, 
And  one  made  from  the  plains  his 

pilgrimage 

Where    bleeding    Kansas'    wounds    are 
healed  with  wheat. 
92 


To  John  G.  Whittier  93 

Oh,  well  for  thee,  my  country,  proud  and 

fair, 
When  the  new  North,  reborn  in   the 

wide  West, 

And  the  new  South,  in  such  serener  air, 
Shall    the   new   Union   in  one   fane 

invest 
Of  sweet  good  will — and  woe  to  those 

who  tear 

Like  vampires  the  old  wounds  upon 
thy  breast! 


JOHN  BROWN 

HAD  he  been  made  of  such  poor  clay 
as  we, 

Who,  when  we  feel  a  little  fire  aglow 
'Gainst  wrong  within  us,  dare  not  let 

it  grow, 
But  crouch  and  hide  it,  lest  the  scorner 

see 

And  sneer,  yet  bask  our  self-complacency 
In  that  faint  warmth, — had  he  been 

fashioned  so, 
The  nation  ne'er  had  come  to  that 

birth-throe 

That  gave  the  world  a  new  humanity. 
He  was  no  vain  professor  of  the  word — 
His  life  a  mockery  of  his  creed ; — he 

made 
No  discount  on  the  Golden  Rule,  but 

heard 
Above  the  Senate's  brawls  and  din  of 

trade 
Ever    the    clank    of    chains,    until   he 

stirred 

The  nation's  heart  on  that  immortal 
raid. 


94 


IT  DOES  NOT  PAY 

IT  does  not  pay  to  struggle  so 
And  let  the  blessed  present  go — 
To  hang  wind-swung  with  hopes  and 

fears, 
And  long    sore-hearted   through  the 

years, 

While  round  our  feet  heaven's  violets 
grow. 

Our  soul's  best  treasure  we  bestow 
On  fame — for  what,  we  do  not  know ; 
But  cares  increase,  and  graves,   and 
tears — 

It  does  not  pay. 

Far  off  the  treacherous  vistas  show 
Dim  splendors  in  a  golden  glow ; 
Beside  us,  seen  too  late,  appears 
The  hateful  woman  with  the  shears: 
Alas,  we  struggle  on  although 
It  does  not  pay. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BRYNWOOD 

FAIR  Brynwood  looks  out  from  the 
hill 

O'er  thicket  and  terrace  and  lawn, 
Every  tree  in  its  place  knows  the  light 

of  his  face, 
But  the  Master  of  Brynwood  is  gone. 

As  aforetime  the  tremulous  east 

Climbs  up  toward  the  sky  in  the  dawn, 

But  his  worshipping  eyes  who  saw  God 

in  those  skies, 
The  Master  of  Brynwood  is  gone. 

The  treasures  of  art  that  he  loved 

From  the  walls  that  he  built  beckon 

down; 
On  the  shelves  crowd  the  friends  he  had 

brought  from  earth's  ends, 
But  the  Master  of  Brynwood  is  gone. 
96 


The  Master  of  Brynwood          97 

We  shall  miss  the  quick  wit  at  the  board, 
The   wise   word   from   counsel   with- 
drawn ; 
We  shall  start  as  we  turn  to  his  place  but 

to  learn 
That  the  Master  of  Brynwood  is  gone. 

Yet  his  spirit,  a  presence  benign, 

In  all  his  loved  haunts  will  live  on ; 
His  life  added  worth  to  this  corner  of 

earth, 

Though  the  Master  of  Brynwood  be 
gone. 

Dear  Mistress  of  Brynwood,  be  strong; 

Our  hearts  too  are  sore  with  your  pain , 
God's  love  be  your  stay  till  He  give  you 
one  day 

The  Master  of  Brynwood  again. 


BENEATH  THE  ICE 

BENEATH  the  ice  the  waters  run — 
The    roof    by    frost-elves    deftly 

spun — 

Unseen,  yet  no  less  rapidly 
To  meet  the  ever-waiting  sea 
And  with  the  great  deep  be  made  one. 

The  stream  that  under  summer's  sun 
Turbid  and  angry  tumbled  on, 
From  every  taint  of  earth  is  free 
Beneath  the  ice. 

This  life,  in  storm  and  stress  begun, 
Ere  all  its  seaward  course  is  done 
May  its  snow-covered  levels  be 
Of  passion  quit  and  vanity, — 
Of  self  and  selfish  cares  be  none 
Beneath  the  ice. 


THE  TIDE  IS  OUT 

''T'HE  tide  is  out,  and  left  and  right 
1       Full  many   a  grewsome,  uncouth 

sight 

The  marshy  river  flats  reveal, 
While  here  and  there  a  venturous  keel 
Creeps    warily    through    some    shallow 
bight. 

Above,  the  sea-gulls  gray  and  white 
Weird  calling  wing  their  heavy  flight ; 
The  dripping  piers  despondent  feel 
The  tide  is  out. 

Thus  in  the  soul- erst  crystal  bright 
Unlovely  objects  come  to  light, 

When  the  high  floods  of  faith  and  zeal, 
Wont  with  their  kind  waves  to  conceal 
Our  frailties,  ebb,  and  in  the  night 
The  tide  is  out. 


99 


UNDER  THE  LEAVES 

A  CARPET  all  of  faded  brown, 
On  the  gray  bough  a  dove  that 

grieves; 

Death  seemeth  here  to  have  his  own, 
But  the  spring  violets  nestle  down 
Under  the  leaves. 

A  brow  austere  and  sad  gray  eyes, 

Locks  in  which  Care  her  silver  weaves ; 
Hope  seemeth  tombed  no  more  to  rise, 
But  God  He  knoweth  on  what  wise 
Love  for  Love's  sunshine  waiting  lies 
Under  the  leaves. 


100 


A  STORMY  NIGHT 

THE  wind  is  full  of  homeless  souls — 
Each  man  pray  for  his  near  ones! 
They  wail  along  the  lower  sky 
And  the  tops  of  the  great  elms  toss  and 

sigh— 
May  God  protect  my  dear  ones  I 

The  cold  moon  rides  with  her  evil  eye — 

Each  man  pray  for  his  near  ones  ! 
The  storm  is  rising  from  the  sea 
And  all  the  spirits  of  wrath  are  free — 
May  God  protect  my  dear  ones  ! 

The  clouds  scud  low  above  the  lea — 
Each  man  pray  for  his  near  ones  ! 

Ere  morn  what  boat  may  lie  on  the 
shoals  ? 

What  home  be  a  heap  of  ashes  and  coals? 
May  God  protect  my  dear  ones  ! 


101 


WOULD  GOD  I  WERE  NOW  BY 
THE  SEA 

(Theme  from  Euripides) 

WOULD  God  I  were  now  by  the  sea, 
On  the  sandy,  sea-weed  shore, 
Where  the  waves  from  the  other  side  of 

the  world 

Roll  in  forever  with  high  crests  curled, 
Roll  in  for  evermore*. 

Would  God  I  were  now  on  the  shore 

With  the  smooth  sand  'neath  my  feet, 
With  the  salt  fresh  gale  blowing  round 

my  head, 
And  the  scolding  sea-gulls  with  wings 

outspread, — 
The  sea-gulls  flying  fleet. 

Would  God  I  were  now  on  the  wave, 
On  the  rising,  sinking  deck, 

102 


Would  God  I  Were  Now  by  the  Sea  103 

While  the   cares   that  have  made   me 

weary  of  time 
Might  still  have  the  mountain  wall  to 

climb 
And  never  find  my  track. 

Would  God  I  were  now  on  the  deck, 

Far  front  on  the  soaring  prow, 
With  eyes  on  the  far-off,  phantom  sail, 
Or  the  changing  green  of  the  swirling 

swale, — 
The  soft  green  field  we  plow. 

Ah,  God,  for  the  giant  sea, 

The  restless,  restful  sea! 
With  wife  and  wee  one  close  by  my  side 
And  a  few  good  friends  with  their  dis- 
course wide 

To  soothe  and  comfort  me. 


KING  ARTHUR'S  HUNT 
A  Legend  of  Gascogne  * 

OH,  Arthur  the  King  on  a  Sunday 
morn 

In  a  country  church  was  praying, 
When  he  heard  through  the  door  the 

blast  of  a  horn, 
And  his  good  hound  Hauston  baying. 

Oh,  his  huntsman's  heart  leaped  sharp 
in  his  breast, 

And  his  lips  forgot  their  duty ; 
He  rose  from  his  knees  all  unconfessed 

To  follow  the  forest's  booty. 

But  woe  is  the  man, be  he  knave  or  king, 
Who  lightly  leaves  his  praying, 

For  love,  or  for  danger,  or  anything, 
Yea,  even  a  deer-hound's  baying. 

*  It  is  a  curious  fact  in  folk-lore  that  this 
legend,  essentially  that  of  the  Wild  Huntsman, 
should  be  found  in  southern  France  attached 
to  King  Arthur. 

104 


King  Arthur's  Hunt          105 

But  Arthur  the  King  's  on  his  courser's 

back, 

And  his  horn  makes  a  music  merry, — • 
When  the  tempests  of  God  snatch  hunter 

and  pack 
And  up  to  the  welkin  carry. 

And  ever  unshriven  along  the  sky, 
At  midnight,  with  wild  hallooing 

And   baying   of   hounds,    King   Arthur 

storms  by, 
A  phantom  stag  pursuing. 

And  when  on  a  wild  and  furious  night 
The  children  are  tucked  under  cover, 

They  murmur  a  prayer,  twixt  pity  and 

fright, 
For  the  poor  king  flying  over. 


FAREWELL  TO  A  MODEST 
SCHOLAR 

(ARTHUR  GRAVES  CANPIBLD) 

WITHOUT  ado,  as  he  has  done 
His  work    among  us,  he  '11  be 

gone. 

The  rulers  will  not  realize 
That  they  have  lost  a  priceless  prize. 
Serenely  they  will  meet  the  case 
And  talk  of  filling  Canfield's  place; 
Who  know  him,  know  such  hope  is  vain; 
Wise,  patient,  clear,  judicious,  fair, 
The  artist  temper,  fine  and  rare — 
We  shall  not  see  his  like  again. 

He  had  not  learned  to  sound  the  trump 
Of  his  own  merits,  nor  could  pump 
Praise  from  his  students,  quid  pro  quo; 
He  did  not  keep  a  press  bureau. 
He  never  slapped  the  powers  that  be 
In  jovial  jest  upon  the  knee. 
He  minded  his  own  business,  which 
He  understood  to  be — to  teach ; 
106 


Farewell  to  a  Modest  Scholar    107 

Impartially  to  gem  and  clod 
He  taught  as  in  the  fear  of  God. 

He  taught  as  in  the  fear  of  God ; 
The  toilsome,  patient  way  he  trod, 
Knowing  that  what  is  built  to  stay 
Is  never  builded  in  a  day ; 
That  conscience  in  the  teacher's  ways 
More  teaches  than  her  loudest  praise 
From  such  as  follow  wandering  lights 
Of    gain,    world's    plaudits,    rank,   and 

spites ; 

That  scholarship  and  character 
Worth  more  than  show  and  trappings 

are. 

He  had  no  cabinets  to  show 

Of  Nature's  wonders  set  a-row, 

The  output  of  his  annual  pains, 

He  merely  worked  in  human  brains ; 

Dealt  in  the  deathless  thoughts  of  men — 

His  tool  the  inconspicuous  pen. 

His  has  the  thankless  office  been 

To  represent  the  things  unseen. 

Without  ado,  as  he  has  done 

His  work  among  us,  he  '11  be  gone. 


MY  MUSE 

NO  coy  Greek  to  lure  and  tease  me, — 
All  her  thought  intent  to  please 

me, 

On  a  stool  my  chair  beside, 
Saxon-haired  and  Scottish-eyed, 
Sits  my  muse,  a  sprite  substantial. 

I  am  forced  to  do  no  wooing; 

Half  the  time  I  hear  her  cooing, 
Hear  her  patter  on  the  floor, 
Or  her  tapping  at  my  door, — 

Keep  her  out  ?     What  mortal  man  shall  ? 

She  has  pinky  arms  and  bosom — 
It  would  break  my  heart  to  lose  'em; 
And  her  stature  's  not  divine — 
Somewhere  about  three  feet  nine ; 
Reynolds  never  would  have  missed  her. 
108 


My  Muse  109 

She  's  her  will  of  me  for  wishing, 
And  to-day  she  goes  a-fishing 
With  a  mahlstick  for  a  pole, 
For  her  line  a  shoestring  whole, — 
What  brook-dweller  could  resist  her? 

I  cannot ;  my  rhymes  confusing, 
She  has  caught,  this  maid  amusing, 
Her  papa,  without  a  hook, 
Pulled  him  clean  out  of  his  book, 
And  a  foolish  fish  I  flounder. 


THE  PLACE  TO  BE  BORN 

I  MET  last  night  a  wand'ring  sprite, 
Flying  the  wide  world  over, 
Prepared  for  birth  on  God's  dear  earth, 
A  body-seeking  rover. 

' '  God  greet  thee,  man, "  the  sprite  began, 
"Right  glad  I  am  to  meet  thee; 

To-morrow  morn  I  'm  to  be  born ; 
Thy  counsel,  I  entreat  thee. " 

"Asia  I  scanned  and  Europe-land — 
Scenes  I  should  be  forlorn  in ; 

Thou  'st  travelled  wide ;  help  me  decide 
The  best  place  to  be  born  in. " 

"Dear  sprite,"    I   said,   "I    praise   thy 

head; 

Far  more  than  rich  bonanzas 
Thy  birthplace  worth ;  thou  'It  find  on 

earth 
No  better  place  than  Kansas. " 


i  xo 


FLOWER  AND  SONG 


I   DUG  a  little  flower 
From  out  the  forest-shade, 
And  set  it  in  my  garden 
Where  light  and  sunshine  played. 

I  went  to  watch  it  daily, 

I  tended  it  with  care, 
And  said,  "With  this  no  other 

Shall  ever  dare  compare." 

And  yet  it  slowly  withered 
Beneath  the  cheerful  sun, 

And  died  there  in  my  garden 
Before  a  week  was  done. 


ii 


I  took  a  little  fancy 

From  out  my  tangled  brain, 
And  set  it  to  the  music 

Of  an  old-time,  sweet  refrain, 
in 


1 1 2  Flower  and  Song 

I  decked  it  out  in  figures, 
I  nursed  it  with  fine  words, 

And  said,  "  My  little  songlet 
Shall  be  sung  by  all  the  birds." 

Its  spirit  waned  and  vanished 
Beneath  its  wordy  weight, 

And  it  died  with  all  its  music 
And  met  the  flower's  fate. 


A  MIRACLE 

DOWN    through   the   dusty   streets 
I  go: 

The  prosy  brick  fronts  stand  arow ; 
Electric  wires  besieve  the  sky, 
Electric  cars  go  clanging  by; 
The  July  sun  malignant  glares 
Upon  the  huckster's  drooping  wares; 
The  sparrows  in  the  gutter  flirt 
Ditch-water  on  my  lady's  skirt ; 
Two  miles  of  this  to  Boston  town, — 
Enough  to  cast  one's  spirits  down! 
Then  suddenly  a  breath  of  air, 
Unheralded,  from  who  knows  where, 
Brings  to  my  sense  an  odor  faint, 
Unrecognized  yet  eloquent, 
And,  whiff!  the  dulsome  street  is  gone — 
Before  me  towers  the  Pantheon! 
Behind  that  mighty  portico 
Lurk  the  great  gods  of  long  ago ; 
About  me  flit  the  imperious  shades 
Of  those  who  built  these  colonnades: 

8  113 


ii4  A  Miracle 

Agrippa,  he  who  talked  with  Paul, 

Trajan,  Septimius  and  all 

The  older  and  the  newer  lords 

Who  bound  the  Seven  Hills  with  cords. 

Time  is  wiped  out,  and  once  again 

I  mingle  with  Italian  men, 

While  on  me,  scarce  a  league  from  home, 

Falls  the  immortal  spell  of  Rome. 


EVERY  SPRING  IS  GREENER 

1WAS    walking  with  the  senator    to 
catch  the  early  train, — 
The  senator  with  stocks  and  bonds 

galore, — 
And  for  fit  commercial  phrases  I  was 

cudgelling  my  brain, 
When  quite  unexpectedly 
Said  the  senator  to  me : 
"  Somehow   this   spring   seems   greener 
than  any  spring  before." 

"  I.  see  no  especial  reason,  and  it  was 

not  always  so, 
But  I  've  noticed  it  a  dozen  years  or 

more; 
And  I  wonder  whether  others,  when  the 

green  begins  to  grow 
Bright  enough  to  catch  the  eye, 
Feel  about  it  as  do  I : 
That  each  new  spring  is  greener  than 
any  spring  before." 
115 


n6         Every  Spring  Is  Greener 

The  senator  is  hearty,  but  his  crown  is 

growing  gray, — 

His  years  are  fifty-three  or  fifty- four, — 
And  this  may  not  be  the  reason,  but  I 

rather  think  it  may, — 

For  the  contrast  with  the  snow 

On  his  head  perhaps  may  show 

Why  the  green  each  spring  seems  greener 

than  any  spring  before. 

Youth,  they  say,  is  hope's  own  season, 
but  they  know  not  what  they 
mean; 
Youth  's  a  butterfly  that  wings  the 

garden  o'er, 
Seeking  gaudy  flowers  that  perish,  while 

in  age  that  glides  serene 
Down  life's  final  snowy  slope 
Stronger  grows  immortal  hope 
And  every  spring  is  greener  than  any 
spring  before. 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  HATE 

"  We  are  unanimous  in  our  hatred  of  Eng- 
land."— From  a  late  interview  with  a  late 
statesman. 

HATE  England?     Hate  our  kith  and 
kin 

That    speak    our    common    mother- 
tongue, 

The  speech  that  Hampden  thundered  in, 
The    tones    that    Burns    and    Milton 
sung? 

Hate  England  ?  Hate  our  ancient  home, 
Whose  every  acre  knows  a  story, 

From  Caithness 'crags  to  Cornwall's  foam, 
Of  Keltic  pluck  and  Saxon  glory? 

But  who  is  this  that  preaches  hate  ? 

I  think  we  know  the  accent  well, — 
The  fallen  archangel  of  our  State, 

The  scoffing  civic  infidel, 
117 


1 1 8  The  Gospel  of  Hate 

Who  built  a  great  renown  of  spite, 
Who  called  the  Christian  statesman 
fool, 

Who  based  his  law  of  right  on  might 
And  cast  away  the  Golden  Rule. 

So,  while  the  bells  of  Christendom 
Tell  earthly  homes  and  empyrean 

That  Christ,  the  Prince  of  Peace,  is  come, 
The  lowly,  loving  Galilean, 

A  new  messiah  clears  his  throat 
Bad  tidings  of  great  woe  to  tell, 

And  utters  with  discordant  note 
The  gospel  of  the  reign  of  hell. 

And  thoughtless  followers  mid  the  murk 
Of  war  revise  the  angels'  strain: 

Peace  e'en  to  the  unspeakable  Turk, 
Good  will  to  all  but  Englishmen ! 

Hate  lust  for  land,  and  hate  no  less 
The  greed  that  seeks  its  gain  in  gore; 

Stand  firm  as  England  taught  us,  yes, 
Against  aggression  evermore. 


The  Gospel  of  Hate  1 19 

Hate  bullying?  Aye.  Hate  greed?  Amen. 

Hate  tyranny  and  wrong?  Forever — 
In  Briton  or  American; 

But  hate  all  England?  Shame!  No, 
never! 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  THOUGHT 

WHILE    Christmas   comes   around 
but  once  a  year 
With  Christmas  revelry  and  Christmas 

cheer, 
Life  starts  anew  with  each  new  morning 

ray 

And   every   day,   thank   God,    is    New 
Year's  Day. 


1 20 


OLD  YEAR  AND  NEW 

THE  Old  Year  has  done  what  it  could 
for  me ; 
All  of  it  that  was  good  for  me 

Has  now  become  a  part  of  me. 
Whatever  the  New  may  bring  to  me, 
May  only  the  good  of  it  cling  to  me 
And  enter  into  the  heart  of  me. 


121 


TO-MORROW 
(Free  after  a  Spanish  song) 

BLEST  of  love  but  yesterday, 
Lorn  of  love  to-day  I  sorrow ; 

Though  to-morrow  I  should  die, 
Yet  to-day  and  eke  to-morrow 
Would  I  dream  of  yesterday. 


122 


LIFE 

(From  the  Italian  of  Metastasio) 

THE  Past  is  not,  but  memory 
With  vivid  brush  recalls  it; 
The  Future  is  not,  but  fond  hope 
With  eager  breath  forestalls  it. 
The  Present  only  is — a  flash — 
It  passes  ere  the  thunder's  crash. 
Such,  then,  is  life  and  all  that  's  in  it : 
A  hope,  a  memory,  and  a  minute. 


123 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  DEDICATION   OP  A  LAW  SCHOOL 
(University  of  Kansas) 

OF  old  upon  the  mountain  height, 
Subdued  by  deep  and  solemn  awe, 
His  face  aglow  with  unknown  light, 
The  Hebrew  seer  received  the  law. 

No  maze  of  precedent  confused 
The  feet  that  first  on  Sinai  trod; 

The  primal  code  of  Israel  used 
The  plain  and  simple  will  of  God. 

May  those  who  gather  at  this  shrine, 
Both  those  who  teach  and  those  who 

learn, 
As  to  a  presence  all  divine 

Bring  hearts  that  for  God's  service 
burn. 

124 


Hymn  125 

Here,  as  of  old  upon  the  mount, 
The  law  to  men  shall  be  revealed, 

And  here  at  learning's  christening  font 
Her  chosen  Levites  shall  be  sealed. 

Grant  in  this  later  day,  O  Lord, 

That  right  and  law  may  blend  in  one, 

And  justice  show  a  flaming  sword 
To  every  wrong  beneath  the  sun. 


LIFE  AT  K.  S.  U. 
(Air :  '5  gibt  kein  schoner  Leberi) 

NEITHER  prince  nor  peasant  leads 
a  life  so  pleasant 
As  the  student's  life  at  K.  S.  U. 
Fair  Mount  Oread  daily  he  ascendeth 

gaily 
And    descends    again    when    day    is 

through ; 
By  his  side  a  maiden  with  whose  books 

he  's  laden 

And  perhaps  a  vagrant  thought  or  two ; 
Who  can  see  and  wonder  that  he  's  loth 

to  sunder 
His  associations  with  K.  U. 

Or,  since  tastes  will  vary  and  the  maids 

be  chary, 

Some  with  bulldogs  have  to  be  con- 
tent; 

Not  on  sweets  and  flowers,  all  their  coin 
and  powers 

126 


Life  at  K.  S.  U.  127 

Now  on  pipes  and  puppycakes  are 

spent. 
And,  mirabile  dictu!  there  are  some  who 

stick  to 
Study,  when  they  've  nothing  else  to 

do; 
Who  can  see  and  wonder  that  they  're 

loth  to  sunder 
Their  associations  with  K.  U. 

Earth  's  no  vision  rarer,  not  a  landscape 

fairer 

Then  each  day  before  our   eyes  ex- 
pands; 
Kansas  skies  are  bluer,  Kansas  hearts 

are  truer 
Than  the  hearts  and  skies  of  other 

lands. 
Then  whate'er  the  weather,  let  us  sing 

together: 
Rock  Chalk  for  the  Crimson  and  the 

Blue; 
Neither  prince  nor  peasant  leads  a  life 

so  pleasant 
As  the  student's  life  at  K.  S.  U. 


TRINK  AUF  MEIN  WOHL  MIT 
AUGEN  NUR 

(Aus  dewi  Englischen  von  Ben  Jonsori) 

HTRINK  auf   mein  Wohl  mit    Augen 
1       nur, 

So  trink'  ich  auch  auf  deins, 
Oder  im  Becher  lass  'nen  Kuss, 

So  wiinscht'  ich  nie  des  Weins. 
Den  Durst,  der  von  der  Seele  steigt, 

Nur  Himmelsnektar  stillt, 
Den  deinen  tauscht'  ich  aber  nicht 

Um  den,  der  Gottern  quillt. 

Dir  schickt'  ich  jungst  'nen  Rosenkranz, 

Dir  nicht  so  wohl  zur  Ehr', 
Als  in  der  Hoffnung,  dass  bei  Dir 

Er  unverwelket  war' ; 
Du  hauchtest  nur  die  Rosen  an 

Und  sandst  sie  wieder  mir, 
Da  bluhn  und  duften  sie,  furwahr, 

Nach  Rosen  nicht,  nach  Dir. 


128 


OFT  IN  DER  STILLEN   NACHT 
(Aus  dem  Englischen  von  Thomas  Moore} 

OFT  in  der  stillen  Nacht, 
Eh  mich  der  Schlaf  befangen, 
Sanft  mir's  im  Herzen  tagt 

Von  Zeiten,  die  vergangen; 
Die  Freud',  das  Leid  der  Kinderzeit, 

Die  holden  Wort'  gesprochen, 
Die  Augen  lieb,  versunken  trub, 

Treu'   Herzen  nun  gebrochen; 
So  senkt  die  stille  Nacht, 

Eh  mich  der  Schlaf  befangen, 
Sanft  um  mich  her  das  Licht 

Der  Zeiten,  die  vergangen. 

Denk'  ich  der  Freunde  all' 

Also  verkniipft,  wie  Blatter 
Zerstreuet  nach  dem  Fall 

Des  Laubs  im  Winterwetter, 
Mir  ist,  wie  dem,  der  einsam  kam' 

Zum  Saale  nach  dem  Schmause, 
Die  Fackeln  fort,  die  Kranz'  verdorrt, 

Die  Gaste  langst  nach  Hause ; 
So  senkt  die  stille  Nacht, 

Eh  mich  der  Schlaf  befangen, 
Sanft  um  mich  her  das  Licht 

Der  Zeiten,  die  vergangen. 
129 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,   UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,   DAVIS 

Book  SHp-55w-10,'68(J4048s8)458 — A-31,  5 


N9  596927 


PS3505 
Carruth,  W.H.  A776 

Each  in  his  own         E3 
tongue . 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


